Balance
by Nausicaa Smith
Summary: Hitsugaya and Matsumoto cope together on the night of Aizen's rebellion. Revised 7/7/11.


_I'm sad, but I'm laughing,_

_I'm brave, but I'm chickenshit_

_I'm sick, but I'm pretty, yeah_

_But what it all comes down to_

_Is that everything is just fine, fine fine_

-Alanis Morissette

Toshiro was allowed to leave the medical ward at half past two. Unohana hadn't wanted him to go so soon, but Matsumoto had promised gleefully that she'd be sure to keep him busy with paperwork for a few days while she looked after the troops herself. Lieutenant Kotetsu had conspired with her to convince Unohana that there were plenty of people already hospitalized and that Matsumoto could keep an eye on Toshiro well enough. So with a cheerful smile in spite of the dark circles under her eyes, Matsumoto helped him gather his things and tie his sash, and together they walked out of Division Four and stepped out onto the dark street below.

It was a clear night with a full, bright moon and Toshiro could see clearly ahead of them. A breeze blew across the wide street as they came to the desolate main square and crossed. Matsumoto, half a step behind, held one hand to her sword's hilt as they walked across the open area. Toshiro knew he should be alert as well for anything suspicious after such an eventful day, but it was all he could do to remember his way back to the barracks. They made it across the moonlit square without incident and turned into the labyrinth that was the streets of Seireiitei.

Out of sight of anyone but her, Toshiro let his shoulders drop, his chin lowering almost to his collarbone. He focused on the polished stones ahead of him, on placing one foot in front of the other. He didn't want to think; not about Aizen, not about Hinamori, not about the intruders or the destroyed Soukyoku or the stolen Hogyoku (whatever the hell that was) or any of the rest of this absurd mess. They turned a corner and Toshiro swayed-but before he shot out a hand to right himself against the wall, he felt a hand on his back, steadying him. He nodded his thanks, and she smiled tiredly down at him.

He didn't have the energy or the will to shrug her off now, so the slight warm pressure of her hand remained there at the back of his neck all the way to the door of his rooms, which were already unlocked. She'd come earlier to get him a change of clothes and put Hyorinmaru away. She hadn't asked, she'd just done it. She always knew what needed to be done, he didn't have to tell her. And he didn't need to tell her that she was the only person he'd ever have allowed to take Hyorinmaru from him.

Inside was dark, but Matsumoto lit the lamps with a little kidou and ushered him into his own living room. Toshiro obeyed quietly, his whole being focused only on not thinking of Hinamori. Hinamori, who still lay comatose at the Fourth Division. Hinamori, whose loyalty seemed to lie more with her traitorous captain than with the Gotei 13, which was inexcusable. Hinamori, so blinded by that loyalty that she would turn against the boy she'd called a brother and her own closest friends before thinking to do a little investigation on her own.

Stop. No more thinking. Toshiro bent and lit the fire. Usually he hated the heat, but tonight he felt a deep chill in the air that probably had nothing to do with the weather. Matsumoto was beside him again. She pushed a cup of hot tea into his hands and sat him down in the floor by the coffee table. How long had he stood there in a daze? He couldn't recall, and it didn't really matter. What mattered was... what did matter? Soul Society, that's what mattered. Aizen's rebellion mattered. Hinamori's broken mind and heart mattered.

Toshiro's vision blurred and he blinked furiously, finally focusing on Matsumoto's face a few feet in front of him. She was staring down into her teacup, the firelight flickering on her face and shining in her golden hair. _That's right_, Toshiro realized. _She's lost a childhood friend too, today_. He drank his tea, recalling that Matsumoto and Ichimaru went way back. Before they had been Shinigami, he thought. Probably not as long as Toshiro had known Hinamori, but long enough anyway.

And she'd been sitting with him at the medical unit all night. She'd been patching Kira up, sneaking liquor in for Hisagi and running errands for Unohana. All with a smile plastered on her face and a happy lilt in her voice, all in spite of how she must feel about having lost a dear friend that afternoon. Toshiro alone, perhaps, knew how she felt. Kira and Hisagi had lost their Captains, whom they'd idolized. They hadn't lost a brother or sister, who they'd grown up with, played games with, shared food and bedtime stories and secrets with.

Suddenly Toshiro wished he'd never suspected Ichimaru at all. He'd always been wary of the man in spite of Matsumoto's assurances that he was a good guy, deep down. He wished he'd just taken her word for it and trusted the snake. That way he wouldn't have the right to say "told you so" now. He wished he could be shocked and deeply hurt like everyone else at Ichimaru's defection, rather than being the one who'd seen through him all these years. Rather than being the one who she, one of the ones who had been hurt the most by the betrayal, would now have to put up with in her grief. She sat, sipping her tea quietly. The firelight cast a darker shade against the pink scarf around her shoulders, and in the shadows it looked almost burgundy.

He really didn't know what to do for her. Matsumoto Rangiku was always the one cheering other people up, always the one smiling and laughing no matter how dire the situation, no matter how terrible the odds. _It must be a heavy burden to bear,_ he thought. _Never being allowed to be sad. Never having an off day, never needing someone to lean on as others lean on you. _She looked up from her teacup, her blue eyes round and wide as they made contact with his. There were no tears on her face, but her hair was mussed and her eyes bloodshot.

"Matsumoto." he said softly. She tilted her head a little in expectation, but he couldn't find anything to say. There wasn't a thing he could tell her that would ease her burden. He could, however, help her forget it for a little while.

Sighing, he got up and padded carefully to the little kitchen in the back. He had to climb up on the counter to reach the top cabinets, but there in the back was a dark green bottle he'd had for a little more than ten years. He hopped down with it, steadied himself, and stepped quietly back into the living area. Matsumoto had put her head down on the table, her legs curled under her. Without a word, Toshiro snapped the seal off the bottle, and poured the dark liquid into her empty teacup. She raised her head and looked around at him in surprise.

"What's this?" she asked, eyebrows nearly creeping up into her hairline.

"Scotch whiskey, from the real world." Toshiro said. "Hinamori gave it to me for a birthday a while back. She said I should try new things."

"Oh?" she smiled softly, picked up the cup... and then put it back down. "Only if you have some too, Captain."

"I'll pass."

"Come on, Captain." A familiar mischievous glint touched her eyes, and she said, "You should try new things."

Well, if it would make her feel better. Just this once. Toshiro poured a little into his own empty teacup and sat the bottle on the table. She was watching him, waiting for him to drink it. He felt ridiculous for a second: a little boy being encouraged to drink whiskey out of a teacup by a busty older woman.

"Um." he said.

"If you've never done it before, it's best to take it like medicine." she said, trying and failing to look serious about it. "If you want to pinch your nose first, I won't tell anybody."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," he said dryly, and held his breath, and took a sip.

Immediately his eyes watered, his throat burned, his ears popped. Choking a little, he sat the cup back down and covered his face with his hands. Matsumoto's tinkling laughter reached his ears. He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath, and decided that the genuine smile on her face was worth it. She drank from her own cup and rested her head on her arms, staring into the fire. He refilled both their cups, and they sat in silence together. Normally he'd have sent her to her own rooms long ago, but he didn't want to be alone tonight. He sensed that she didn't either.

"How long do you think they were planning all this?" she said softly, leaning back against the foot of the couch. Toshiro sighed. He didn't really want to think about it. But waiting to deal with it wouldn't make it any easier, he knew.

"Probably," he responded, "A very long time. I'd guess, longer than I've been in Soul Society. If Aizen ever was anything, it was patient."

"You're probably right." she said, nodding in solemn agreement. Her eyes shone a little too brightly in the fire light.

"Rangiku?" he said, and it was almost a whisper.

"Hm?" she took a sip from her cup, sat it down. When he didn't say anything, she turned to look at him.

"I'm sorry." was all he could think of. A lone tear ran down her flushed cheek, but she brushed it away as if it were a fly that had been bothering her. She leaned forward, stretching across the table, and squeezed his small hand. Smiled a watery smile.

"I'm sorry too." she whispered.

Gradually the green bottle emptied, and Matsumoto fell asleep lying in the floor in front of the dying fire. Toshiro's vision wobbled and spun, but he pulled a spare blanket from the back of the sofa and tossed it over her. With some trouble his fingers found the latch of her necklace and pulled it away with her scarf; he wouldn't have anyone being accidentally strangled on _his_ watch.. The necklace made him think fleetingly of the first time she'd been injured after he'd been appointed her Captain. She'd asked him to hold onto her necklace so that it wouldn't be misplaced, and indeed he had sat outside the surgery suite at the Fourth Division with the thin gold chain clenched in his hand. Lieutenant Abarai had come by and left some flowers for her, and said in passing to Toshiro, "Don't worry. Ran is strong."

Abarai had proved right, in spite of Toshiro's terror that he'd gotten his lieutenant killed after not a fortnight on the job. Fifty years later she was still around, as irritating and obnoxious and as constant as ever. Toshiro folded the scarf and set it and the necklace on the table where she'd find them easily. In the morning she'd get up and wash her face, comb her hair, and appear to all the world to be as right as rain. She would be a comfort to Kira and a distraction to Hisagi. She'd help Toshiro finish the Fifth Division's paperwork and she'd come with him to visit Hinamori. She'd have a drink with Iba and Madarame. She'd give her report at the Lieutenants' meeting with a steady voice and straight shoulders, and they would all take it for granted that she was just fine, fine, fine.

He wondered how she stood up to it. So many people were leaning on her for support, for comfort, for help, for guidance, for solace; but who could she lean on herself? It was a wonder she didn't collapse with the weight of it. At the very least, she should be way off balance. Toshiro straightened the blanket as best he could in his fuzzy state, shut the screen on the fireplace, and sat down on the couch. He'd watch over her until he fell asleep. There was nothing he could do to heal the injuries that Ichimaru had dealt to her, nor to ease the burden of the others who depended on her; but if he could at least lessen his own weight against her already overtaxed soul, maybe that would be enough.


End file.
